Unwilling
by ameliagianna
Summary: "Without a second thought, she pulls out her phone and dials Peter. 'Still want that drink' she asks without greeting." - David Robert Jones has other plans for Olivia...and the other Cortexiphan subjects. Can Peter find them in time? AU after 1.14 'Ability'.
1. Part I: Aftermath

"_Many warriors of the inevitable confrontation are among us now. But before they can be considered Soldiers, they must first be regarded as Recruits. And the expectation is that they shall be __**unwilling**__."_

* * *

It's not possible. No goddamn way.

"YOU PASSED" the wall taunts her.

Without a second thought, she pulls out her phone and dials Peter. "Still want that drink?" she asks without greeting.

"354 Rutherford," is his reply. Then the line goes dead.

* * *

When Olivia walks through the door at the address Peter gave her, the first thing that hits her is the music. Jazz from a white baby grand in the corner, and breathy lyrics from a woman at the microphone a foot away.

A piano bar? _Seriously?_

She spots him in a corner booth, already nursing a half-empty glass of what looks to be whiskey. A second glass sits untouched in front of him.

He looks up, finding her eyes immediately, like he could sense that she had just walked in. He smiles, a grin that's warm, friendly and open but at the same time reserved and unsure. She doesn't read in to it, and doesn't smile back.

She walks over to the booth and before she even sits down, throws back the contents of the second glass. He watches with wide eyes and mouth agape, before signaling the waitress for another.

"Wanna fill me in?" he half-laughs.

"In a minute," she whispers hoarsely. The waitress comes back in almost no time at all, two new drinks on her tray. Peter downs the last contents of his own glass before setting it at the end of the table. Their fresh drinks replace the empty glasses, and the woman's gone.

Olivia picks up her drink and tilts it back, just slightly more than needed for a normal sip. A third of the liquid's disappeared down her throat when Peter blinks.

"Okay," she sighs, setting the glass back down. "So first, Jones has escaped from the hospital."

Peter opens his mouth to speak and Olivia puts up a hand. "Don't ask how, I don't know. Second, he left behind a message."

"To you?" he asks quickly.

She nods. "'_You passed_'," she says. She takes an uneasy sip.

"Hell, 'Livia," he sighs after a long silence.

"It was written across the damn wall like some big joke," she says quietly, but not whispering.

He watches her take another sip, and she feels his gaze burning into her.

He shifts in his seat, swallows a quick sip, and clears his throat. "Olivia," he starts, and the way he says her name makes the hair on the back of her neck stand on end. "I know it doesn't seem like it, but tonight is a win. You saved hundreds—thousands—of lives tonight, including ours. I say take what you can get, and celebrate." He tips his glass in her direction.

"At a piano bar?" she asks skeptically, a smirk playing at her lips.

Peter grins. "Stephan isn't half bad. He's not as good as me, but he's not bad."

"And the woman?"

"Charlotte. Now she's a different story, and one I don't enjoy telling." He tilts back his glass. "This bar has sentimental value. I used to play here."

"Really?" she teases. "Girls must have been _all over_ you."

He shrugs, "Not as many as you'd think."

She drops the subject, and notices just a hint of red in his eye.

"Were you here before I called?" she asks.

He laughs sardonically. "Just because you didn't want to come and drink with me didn't mean I couldn't."

She nods, and slowly rolls her glass between her palms, the condensation making them cold and damp. She replays the events of the day in her mind, and it makes her stomach turn.

Peter eventually notices her trance, and lays a hand gently on her wrist. Her hands stall, and she slowly meets his eyes.

On the surface, there's the alcohol, there's his own memories of the day, there's gratefulness for being alive. But there's something else hidden there, something underneath. A concern for her well-being, a level of attraction that may even go beyond the physical.

It makes her pulse thrum a little quicker under her skin, and she worries that he'll feel it beneath his fingertips.

"Are you sure you're okay?" he asks slowly. "And, seriously, don't say you're 'fine'."

She can't fight the minute smile his words elicit. "I'm just a little overwhelmed, I think. You know, developing superpowers and saving the world were not on my to-do list for today."

He chuckles softly. "I thought saving the world was on our to-do list _every_ day."

"Yeah," she whispers, acutely aware that his hand is still on her wrist. He makes no move to remove it, and she realizes that she doesn't seem to mind.

He starts to pull away, but his fingers linger on her skin a second longer, the ridges of his identity brushing the back of her hand. Her phone rings in her jacket pocket and she tenses, surprised.

She pulls away and digs for her cell. As she does, he says, "But you have to admit, the superpower thing could be pretty cool. And it might come in handy someday."

"Hello," she answers, smiling at him.

"_Agent Dunham? Nina Sharp._" Olivia's smile falls. "_Hand's back to normal._"

Peter watches her intently as she replies, "Well, good for you."

"_I was curious about that question you asked, whether there were other places where Cortexiphan was tested._"

"Yeah," Olivia confirms nervously.

"_There was, as it turns out, a second clinical trial, though much smaller than the one in Ohio._"

"There was?" she chokes out. Peter's gaze holds hers, and her chest tightens.

"_Yes, in Jacksonville, Florida, at a military base._"

It's not possible. No goddamn way.

"_Agent Dunham?_" she hears.

She swallows hard. "Thank you very much for calling."

"_You're very much welcome, have a good night._" There's a click, and Nina Sharp's gone.

Not likely, she thinks.

"You look like you've just spoken to a ghost," Peter says, and she remembers that not long ago she had been—but that was different. "Who was that?"

"It's nothing," she whispers.

"Are you sure? Because that didn't—"

"Peter, please," she pleads, eyes closed.

And he doesn't ask again. He only nods.

They finish their drinks in silence. The waitress returns.

"Another round?" she offers.

"No, thank you," Peter tells her, not taking his eyes off of Olivia, whose head had fallen into her hands with her elbows propped up on the table.

The woman takes their empty glasses and leaves them again.

When Olivia finally looks up, Peter's still watching her. She smiles, it not reaching her eyes, and asks, "You need a ride?"

Peter's hand comes up and rubs roughly over his unshaven scruff. "Uh, no. It's fine. I'll get a cab."

"Peter, don't be ridiculous. I'll drive you, don't waste your money on a cab." She grabs her jacket, pulling it on as she stands.

He smiles and nods. "Thank you."

Bundled into their coats, they head out the door. The biting winter chill instantly hits their cheeks, painting them a rosy pink.

"So, home?" Olivia asks him outside on the street, bathed in the iridescent yellow of the streetlight above.

"Yeah," he replies, walking up beside her. She leads them down the block to where she's parked her government-issue SUV.

"I'm surprised Walter hasn't called to check up on you," Olivia admits, opening her door.

"I think he self-medicated tonight, because when I called to tell him I'd be late he just laughed and hung up," he tells her with a smirk.

Olivia smiles and climbs into her car.

The drive is mostly silent. Peter fiddles with the radio, but gives up and turns it off a few minutes later.

But, eventually, they reach the hotel. Olivia pulls the SUV over next to the curb.

"Now are you going to tell me what's bothering you, or are you going to make me guess?" he turns and says to her.

Olivia meets his eyes for a moment before she looks down at her hands in her lap.

When she doesn't say anything, Peter sighs. "Okay, fine. You don't have to tell me…"

"That was Nina Sharp on the phone," she interrupts him. "She said there was a second trial of Cortexiphan."

"Where?"

She takes a deep breath, "On a military base, in Jacksonville, Florida."

He inhales. "Come up. I'll make coffee."

"No, I should get home. Chances are there will be a new case bright and early."

"Olivia…"

"I'm okay," she insists. "Yes, Jones could be right, and yes, I suppose I could have really shut off those lights. But nothing's changed. We get a case, we get the bad guy."

"You're not sleeping tonight, are you?"

"Highly doubtful," she whispers, looking down again. "But it's not much different from every other night."

Peter opens his door and exits the car. He circles around to Olivia's side and she rolls down her window.

"Will you do something for me?" he asks, leaning in to soak up the escaping heat from the cabin.

"Depends."

"Go home and sleep. Turn off your phone, your alarm, and just sleep. You've been through a lot today. Take a day to yourself, Olivia. Or a night, at least. Please."

After a moment, she smiles. "You trying to get rid of me, Bishop?"

He grins. His hand reaches and brushes a few strands of hair from the side of her face.

And then he kisses her. His hand is surprisingly warm and gentle on her cheek, and his lips press into and move with hers.

When they pull apart, they're both quietly gasping for breath.

"Never," he whispers, dropping his hand and turning away from her. He walks up the path to the front door.

He glances back once more before he disappears into the hotel.

Only then does her heart stop beating again.

* * *

When Olivia gets home, she walks into her bedroom, unclips her gun from her belt and places it in the drawer of the nightstand.

Her jacket is already off and she sees it draped over a chair in her kitchen. Her hair has been released from her tight ponytail, shaken out and falling over her shoulders.

She stands, straightening her back. _"Trying to get rid of me, Bishop?"_ The memory of his smile makes her head spin.

He must have been drunk. _That's the only explanation_, she thinks.

She drops herself onto her bed and her head into her hands. For a split second, she's back at the bar, trying to digest the information from Nina Sharp. She can almost feel Peter's eyes on her.

But when she looks up, he's not there. Her elbows don't rest on the wooden table of the bar, but on her own knees. She's home, in her bedroom, but still reeling from information she was given almost an hour ago.

"_Go home and sleep. Turn off your phone, your alarm, and just sleep."_

The proposition sound appealing.

She kicks off her shoes. She unbuckles and slides the belt off her slacks. She unbuttons her shirt, one by one.

It takes all her strength to walk to the closet and bull down an old t-shirt and some sweatpants.

Minutes later—or hours, she can't really tell—she slides under her bedcovers and lays her head down on the pillow. She reaches up to switch off the lamp.

She hasn't turned anything off, and knows eventually a call will wake her up. But she's sure that if she tries, she might actually get some sleep tonight.

* * *

The light flickers into darkness and she closes her eyes.

She jerks awake. Her room is dark, so it's still night. She glances at her clock.

_3:11am. Great._

A noise filters in from the other room, and Olivia's body goes into panic mode. She silently reaches to the drawer and pulls out her gun. She clicks off the safety and slides her legs out of the bed.

She is silent as she pads from her bed to the open doorway.

A quick check around the doorjamb reveals nothing, so she continues to the kitchen.

Her tea kettle, which she has used once to date, sits on the stove. A mug sits on the counter, a white string of a tea bag dangling down the side.

Someone else is here.

"Hello, Miss Dunham."

She whips around, finger on the trigger.

He's seated in a chair at the edge of the living room. "I hope you don't mind, but I prepared us some tea."

"What are you doing here?"

He smiles, and it makes her feel sick. "I am here to offer you…" he pauses, as if searching for the word, "an opportunity."

He stands, her mug in his hand, the hot water of the tea still steaming.

"Sorry, not interested."

"But you haven't even heard it yet, Olivia."

She doesn't respond.

"I'm offering you the chance to become something more. Something better, _stronger_."

"Again, not interested."

He laughs. "Unfortunately for you, 'no' is not an option."

A sharp blow to the back of her neck knocks her to the floor. Her gun skitters a few feet away and her head feels light and heavy simultaneously.

"'The expectation is that they shall be unwilling,'" he says as her vision starts to blur. "You're going to be my strongest warrior yet."

It all goes black.

* * *

**A/N:** So, I know it's been awhile since I posted, but I am hard at work on this story and several others (including the Don't Go sequel and the Emilia rewrite). I'm currently on Part 3 of this story, but this is all I have typed. Off to the end of the weekend!


	2. Part II: Side Effects

"_The future you have tomorrow won't be the same future you had yesterday."_

_-Chuck Palahniuk_

Olivia remembers the two of them walking down the corridor at the coroner's office.

She doesn't know why she remembers, but when she does, it's not as if she's reliving it in her own skin.

No, she is a third-part observer, a witness.

"When I saw Loeb, he said something. That Jones was only doing what had been written."

Olivia watches herself and Peter walk closer to her, unsure of why she was here or what she was looking for.

"Meaning what?" Peter asks. "Written where?"

"Well, I didn't know, but we've never known what Jones' group ZFT stood for." They turn a corner. "Maybe it's not the name of their organization. What if it's the name of their bible?"

"Interesting," he says, and she can see the wheels in his head turning, even from several feet away.

"So," she starts, stopping in the hallway, "I called a contact at the German authorities and I asked him to search any known document with those initials."

Peter tucks his hands into the pockets of his jeans. "Did he find anything?"

Olivia stops listening, but continues watching. She watches herself still talking, and she notices how she leans forward towards Peter.

"Weird connections?" she hears Peter say a few minutes later.

"They're always a little weird," she tells him.

"Well, you're always a little weird," he shoots back, and it makes her smile.

_Her_-her, not the memory of her…oh, this was getting confusing.

"What do you think?" she asks, and she hunches in slightly closer to him. "Come on," she presses.

And then he smiles. "I think I got a weird connection."

"I knew you would," she says with a smile. They turn to walk back to the room they came from, but Olivia can't follow. Her feet are glued to the floor.

She blinks and the scene's gone.

Suddenly, she's back on the 47th floor.

"Whoa, whoa, whoa, whoa!" Peter's voice hits her. "Where are you going? Olivia, we gotta go."

Olivia doesn't move.

"What'd Jones say?" He steps closer and grabs her arm. "Olivia—"

"I need to do this. There is no other way."

"If you stay here," he says sternly, pointing at the bomb, "you are going to die."

She wrenches her arm from his grip and turns away from him.

"I'm not doing this with you, Olivia," he says, inches away.

And even though she knows better now, that he does come back, the words bite at her the same as they did in that moment.

He walks away. "You're out of your mind."

Olivia follows Peter out, wants to see why he changes his mind. She half-expects to get stuck because following Peter is beyond her memory. But she doesn't.

He turns a corner, finds the elevators. He presses the down button more than once.

Staring at the elevator doors, he drops his head. He whispers something that sounds like an expletive, but she's not entirely sure.

He turns around and jogs back, stopping just before the room. He takes a deep breath, walks in slowly, silently.

He stops in the middle of the room, watching Olivia's back.

She tilts her head, just barely, and the light in the bottom-right-hand corner goes dark. Then another. Two more, and another.

Peter stops breathing.

The lights go out randomly, in no specific order or interval; it looks a lot like Peter's trick with the light box.

When the final light blinks out, and they can hear the device powering down, time freezes. _00:00:02_.

Her hands lift to her face, almost as if in prayer.

And he laughs.

"You did it," he says, bewildered. He backtracks quickly, "What was that, how did you do that?"

She brushes her nose with the side of her hand and turns back to look at him. "I don't know." She breathes heavily. "I don't know," she repeats.

She remembers wanting to cry. And to hug him, for coming back, whether he did it by choice or not.

In front of the light board, she sinks down into a squat and hides behind her hands. Peter steps forward, lowers himself beside her. She feels his hand, warm and firm on her back. "I don't know," she whispers again.

Olivia wakes to the feeling of cold metal on the back of her arms and neck, and tight, soft straps or leather on her wrists and ankles.

And the pinch of the needle beneath the skin inside of her elbow.

"Welcome, Olivia," a voice echoes from the darkness around her.

She pulls against her restraints but feels weak. As if she's going to fall asleep again.

"Don't fight it, Olivia. It'll be over in a few minutes, and then after you rest we'll introduce you to everyone."

Her eyelids feel heavy. She stops struggling, suddenly she's too tired.

"Or, technically, reintroduce."

When Peter wakes up the next morning, it feels as if something's missing. It takes him a minute to realize his phone isn't ringing. That's how he's usually knocked back into consciousness, by Olivia calling to tell him about their next horror.

But instead he wakes to the blissful silence of morning.

He kind of wishes his phone _had_ been ringing.

He checks it, just in case he slept through the call. The headache of his hangover starts to set in, and he finds the screen of his phone empty. No missed calls.

Maybe Olivia had taken his advice, after all.

He would never admit it, but he kind of wishes she hadn't. For the first time, he wants there to be a case. He wants Olivia's call to awaken him, for her voice to be the first thing he hears in the morning.

How much had he had to drink last night?

And that kiss, _the_ kiss, was that real?

It felt real, it felt extremely real. Blood-boilingly, heart-poundingly, brain-meltingly real.

Just then, his phone rings. He doesn't even look at the screen first, he just answers.

He's smirking as he says, "Good morning, sunshine."

"_Bishop?_" he hears, and that is _not_ Olivia.

"Agent Broyles? Sorry, sir, I thought it was…someone else."

"_We've got a case. Can you get your father to the lab to receive the body?_"

"Sure. Where's Olivia? Is she already there?"

"_No, I've been unable to reach Agent Dunham this morning. If you talk to her, tell her to call me as soon as possible._"

"Uh, yeah. Okay."

The phone goes silent. He dials Olivia's number and puts the phone to his ear again.

It doesn't go straight to voicemail—but she doesn't pick up, either.

After another call and a quick text, he resigns himself to wait and goes to wake Walter up.

"You okay?" she remembers him asking as she was taking a drink of water.

She nodded, but her shoulders slumped forward tell him something else. She looked off across the room in thought, and then back to him. "I didn't do anything…" she says, "with those lights. He planned it, Jones."

She kept looking at it, the light board. "It was all just a mind game."

He brow furrowed in confusion. "How do you plan it? Plan _what_?" he asked, leaning forward.

"They were programmed to turn off when the countdown ended," she tells him.

"Maybe, but…" Peter paused, "he couldn't have known when you were gonna arrive, he couldn't have known the timing on that."

She shrugged. "Well, that's what he did."

She was tired, and she looked it. Actually, she looked exhausted.

"Look, I'm the _last_ person to subscribe to this kind of stuff," he said, "but you were in the zone out there tonight, Olivia. The way you stared down that light box was like _nothing_ I've ever seen before."

"It wasn't me," she insisted.

"Fine," he said. "Then let me play devil's advocate: Why did Jones even choose you at all?"

He had her there, and she searched desperately for any answer. Her head tilted, like she agreed, and for a second he thought he'd won.

But then she'd found her answer. "Because of _your_ father. He wanted to meet your father, he wanted to meet the man who designed the device that let him escape from prison." It'd been a weak answer, but it was plausible.

He looked off at the bomb. "And you think that's what all this was about?" he asked, gesturing to around them.

She lifted a hand, unsure of what else to say.

"Okay," he laughed. "Fine." He looked back at her. "Look, all I know is that I didn't die tonight, so I'm pretty much willing to accept any answer you wanna give."

He looked off again, but she'd watched him. He'd been skeptical, confused. She had been, too.

"You wanna go get a drink?" he asked suddenly. "Or five? I've seen you with a whiskey bottle."

She had smiled, even laughed a little. But she'd looked down into her lap and let it fall, and he'd known her answer.

"Jones was just transferred to Boston General, so…I have a few questions for him." She leant forward and started to stand. "It's my last chance," she'd shrugged.

"Yeah," Peter agreed. He seemed like a livewire all of a sudden. As she walked away, he sighed.

She remembers walking down that hallway, at the hospital, against the current of chaos. The intercom had been blaring, doctors and nurses were shouting to each other. She'd kept on walking, oblivious to what she was walking into, what she was about to find.

The door was already open.

The second she was inside, she had stopped. And in that moment, all her questions were to remain unanswered.

The gaping hole in the wall simply raised more.

She didn't know why at the time, but she'd sensed something. She'd _needed_ to turn her head, to find his message.

She couldn't help but look for it. After all, it was meant for her to find.

Even within the memory, she can feel the weight of her phone in her hand, ready to give in.

At the lab, Peter tries Olivia's cell again; still no answer. He tries her home phone and doesn't get an answer there, either.

He goes through his contacts and finds a name. He calls a number he's only called once, maybe twice since he arrived in Boston.

"_Agent Francis,"_ the gruff voice answers.

"Hey, Charlie, it's Peter Bishop."

"_What can I do for you, Peter?"_ he asks cautiously.

"You heard from Olivia this morning?"

There's a pause. _"No. Why?"_

"We're working on a new case, but no one's been able to reach her. I know yesterday was pretty rough on her but I'm worried."

"_Have you tried her home phone?"_

"Yeah, no answer, just like her cell."

"_What about Rachel?"_

"Olivia said they flew back to Chicago so Ella could see her dad."

Through the phone he can hear Charlie sigh. _"I'll stop by her place, check it out."_

"I'll meet you there," Peter says, and Charlie hangs up.

When Olivia comes to again, she's not alone. Two men, dressed in black, move around on either side of her. She's still strapped down, but the needle's no longer in her arm.

"She's awake," one of them says, the one to her right. They both begin to remove her restraints and the second her hand is free she swings.

Her fist lands haphazardly against the first guy's nose, and he stumbles back. It doesn't phase the other guard, and he continues to the strap until her other arm is free.

He ducks away before she can hit him and begins to unstrap her ankle.

The injured man regains his balance and proceeds to unbuckle her other foot.

Olivia watches, confused. When she's free, she slides off the table and steps back. Neither of the men advance on her. Blood trickles from the nose of the guard she hit, but he doesn't do anything but glare.

She slowly begins to walk backwards, then turns and sprints for the door.

It opens, unlocked, and she finds herself in a room filled with cots. And people.

When Olivia bursts in, all eyes shoot up to examine the newcomer. To her surprise, more than one set of those eyes hold some sort of recognition.

"Olive?" a voice asks.

**A/N: Don't hate me. I've had this chapter (and the next one) written for a while, but I never got around to typing them. Finally, when moving the story to a new notebook/rewriting and editing, I got my muse back and got over my roadblock for Part IV. Expect the typed version of Part III in the next week or two (if I don't forget) and then Part IV when it's finished. I really like this story, and I really like where it's going, so I'm not really rushing it. I want it to be good. I think it will be good. The same goes for Absentia, in case any of you are readers. I actually considered scrapping the version I've posted already and starting over, because somehow it's not going where I wanted/expected it to go, but I'm trying to work with it. Sorry for the uber-long author's note. Keep reading and reviewing, guys!**


	3. Part III: Class Reunion

"_Mors certa, vita incerta."_

_-Featured in Philip K Dick's 'Do Androids Dream of Electric Sheep?'_

* * *

"Olive?" a voice asks.

She turns toward it, and finds a man. He's young, about her age, with cropped blonde hair and a scar on his left temple that vaguely resembles the number '2'.

"Olive, it's really you." He steps forward, approaching slowly but stopping just a little too close for Olivia's comfort.

She looks at him, feeling as if she should know him. But she doesn't, can't seem to draw any memory of him at all.

"It's me, Nick. Don't you remember?"

She doesn't respond, and his face falls slightly.

"It's okay. I think they meant for us to forget. But I just couldn't, Olive."

His casual use of that nickname makes her uncomfortable. The woman standing next to him reaches out, places her hand gently on his arm. She watches Olivia with a look of mild disdain.

"You were always the strong one. Whenever I got scared, you could make me feel better."

Olivia suddenly notices the volume of people in the room.

"What is this place?" she whispers, all eyes on her.

"This is our training," the woman beside Nick says, as if it's something she should already know.

"The soldier to come is both natural and unnatural," Nick recites.

"And you will be the strongest once again," another voice says from behind her, with a distinct British accent.

She turns on her heel, bracing herself. As he walks closer, Olivia hears the shuffling of feet around the room. When she chances a look back, every body in the room stands at attention.

"Well, Miss Dunham, don't you recognize your classmates? Your childhood companions?" he gestures to the military-esque formation.

"What is this, Jones, why have you brought me here?"

He laughs. It sickens her. "Don't you get it yet, Olivia? I'm assembling an army. You children have been given gifts, and in return, you will use those gifts to save our world," he says, arms open to the room.

"From who?" she asks.

"The other one," a voice chimes in.

"Another world."

"The Other Side."

"The enemy."

Jones smiles proudly. "Wonderful, children. Now everybody get some rest, tomorrow is a new day," he says cheerfully, clapping his hands together.

Before Olivia can think to respond, to attack, to do _anything_, Nick's hand is on her shoulder and Jones is out the door, which locks loudly behind him.

"Come on, Olive. Our beds are over here."

Olivia turns, looks where he indicates two cots, side-by-side a few feet apart. The others have split up as well and taken their own cots.

Across most of the room are these pairs of 'beds', each cot two or three feet from its partner and each set about six or seven feet from the next.

As she steps closer, she can see her name clearly printed on the end of the frame.

* * *

When Peter arrives at Olivia's apartment, Charlie's already there. He stands outside her front door, waiting.

"Hey," he greets the agent.

Charlie simply nods, and pulls out his keys. He rummages through a moment before finding the one he wants. When Peter looks closer, he notices a piece of tape around the top of the key with only the letters '_OD_' written across in Sharpie.

He slides it into the lock and turns the deadbolt. "For emergencies," he explains, not looking at Peter.

Peter doesn't respond.

Inside, at first glance, everything seems normal. The apartment is tidy, lightly furnished. A small, faded-green stuffed monkey is propped up in the corner of the couch, surveiling.

Must be Ella's, he thinks. "Don't suppose you saw anything?" he whispers.

Charlie wanders off to the bedroom while Peter moves into the kitchen.

An abandoned cup of tea sits on the counter, while another cup sits in the sink, empty. The kettle sits forgotten on the stove. Peter feels the full cup and kettle with the back of his hand—cold.

Charlie comes back, places two items on the counter. "Her cell and her shield, both on the bedside table."

"Well, there's a full cup of tea on the counter and another empty in the sink."

"So she had company?"

"At three in the morning? Not likely." Peter runs a hand over his head, thinking. He scans the room again, looking for something he missed.

"How do you know it was three in the morning?" Charlie asks.

"We went out for drinks. She couldn't have been home before two-thirty."

Charlie nods, then steps forward. "Since when does Liv drink expensive British tea?"

"That's just it, she _doesn't_. I've never seen Olivia drink anything but coffee and whiskey." Just then, something under the couch catches his eye.

"But we know someone who does," Charlie says, just as Peter pulls the gun from its hiding place.

* * *

Nick sits, and Olivia forces herself to do the same. Their knees brush.

"It's okay, Olive. The first few nights are hard, but it gets better." She can only guess he means the new schedule, because even though she's tired she knows it's only morning.

She nods, fakes a smile. He returns it, but his is genuine.

"You know," he says quietly, over the murmurs around them, "I waited a for…a long time to be called up. I waited. Stay fit, stay focused, stay ready. I wore the blacks and grays, I blended in. And then a man with glasses showed up at the hospital. He spoke all the old words. He said, 'They're coming.'"

Olivia remembers the very cult-ish display only minutes ago.

"He needed warriors," Nick continues. "He said, 'What was written will come to pass.'"

Olivia looks up from her lap. They were the same words that Loeb used.

"And then he brought me here."

Olivia inhales. "Look, you don't know Jones. He's killed people, innocent people—"

"What are you talking about? _Killing_?"

"David Robert Jones is the leader of a bioterrorist organization called ZFT. I work for the FBI, and we've been investigating him for months."

"Olive, Jones is trying to save our world. Every war has…casualties."

"He is not your friend, Nick. He is a sick person who is taking advantage of all of you."

"Nick?" a woman asks.

It's the same woman who was standing beside him earlier. "I just came to say goodnight." She eyes Olivia suspiciously.

He sighs at the sight of her. He reaches for her, and she gives him her hand. "Goodnight, Sally."

"Goodnight," she says, squeezing his hand before letting go. She walks away slowly, looking back at them.

Nick turns back towards Olivia. "Let's call it a night, okay?" He lays back on his cot, obviously not in the mood for more talking.

She stays sitting up, and looks around the room. Several glances are being thrown her way, along with many whispers.

She only notices two people without a partner. Sally, and a man who looks sick, like he's in pain. Beyond them are still several sets of empty cots, just waiting.

Finally, Olivia forces herself to lay down. She looks over at Nick, already asleep.

She will not be so lucky.

* * *

Peter can feel the bile rise up in the back of his throat as Charlie curls his fist and knocks. The door is a simple, dark wood, and the metal plaque is engraved with the name 'Broyles'.

He calls them in and Peter sees he's just putting down the phone. Broyles rubs at his brow, as if he has a headache.

"Agent Dunham's been taken," Charlie says.

"What?" Broyles asks.

"She wouldn't answer her phone, so we went by her place and there was evidence that someone else had been there," he continues.

"We found her cell, her badge. Her gun had fallen under the couch…" Peter adds. He's angry, upset-but at the last second, stops himself and takes a deep breath.

"And this was in the sink." The agent beside him holds up an evidence bag with a mug in it. "Tea," he clarifies.

Broyles sighs.

* * *

As she suspected, Olivia doesn't sleep. She lays on the cot for several hours, eyes open. Closing her eyes, she sees visions of Peter and Walter in the lab, examining her dead body.

So she stopped closing her eyes for more than the length of a blink.

Sometime in the middle of the 'night'—while she's sure it's midday, there are no clocks or windows to be sure—when she's confident everyone's asleep, she sits up. She pushes off her shoes, the cement floor cold through her socks.

She gathers the blanket she had left folded at the foot of the bed and drapes it over her shoulders.

She's dressed in a black tanktop and black yoga pants, which she had _not_ been wearing when she was taken. The fact that someone had changed her clothes makes her fist the blanket tighter, her knuckles white against the gray fabric.

Everything in the room was either gray or black, even the walls. The only exception, it seems, is the white nametags at the end of every occupied bed.

She stands slowly, and the cot creaks.

She pads away, silent as she can, and surveils the area: two doors on either side of the large room, both undoubtedly locked, no windows or skylights.

They're likely in a warehouse. Where, she doesn't know.

She walks, reading the names on every bed.

Olivia Dunham, Nick Lane. Susan Lewis, Nancy Lewis.

She goes on until she reaches the first unoccupied bed, next to a James Heath—the sick man. Unlike the other empty cots, this one had a name. Julie Heath.

She doesn't linger, afraid someone will wake and catch her wandering.

Almost back to her own bed, she hears a click and the door closest begins to open.

She sprints, rolling into bed as quietly as she can.

With her eyes squeezed shut, and her breathing as shallow as she can manage, she listens.

Two sets of footsteps enter the room.

"No doubt they've noticed she's missing, now. They've probably already deduced—or at least assumed it's me. You must make sure they don't find anything to lead them here," Jones says.

"Of course," another voice says, too quiet for her too place.

The footsteps continue closer, and stop a few feet from the end of her cot.

"Tomorrow, she will begin. She will learn."

"She's a fighter, this one. You'll have to watch her, or she might knock down the whole house of cards."

"That's the spirit I'm counting on," Jones says.

"If she gets out of line, I'll gladly set her straight." It's then she recognizes the voice, and it takes her every cell to fight the urge to get up, or even just open her eyes and see him. She can hear the sick anticipation in his voice.

"No need, Sanford. She'll soon see what the others see."

The footsteps start again back toward the door. As soon as it clicks locked behind them, Olivia sits up and opens her eyes.

Sanford Harris is working for David Robert Jones.

* * *

Several hours after Olivia's discovery, the doors open again and a man hits the light switch on the wall. The lights above flicker on loudly and everyone begins to stir.

She stays down for another minute or so, feigning sleep, until Nick's hand on her shoulder makes her eyes snap open.

He smiles, then turns and follows the group towards the doors on the opposite wall.

Olivia stands and tugs on her shoes, realizing she is meant to follow as well.

She jogs to catch up with Nick, the only person she—sort of—knows.

Beyond are rows of showers—that thankfully have stall doors. The men continue to migrate past and through to another room, but the women each find a stall and begin to undress.

Olivia hesitates, but someone places a hand on her shoulder.

"Olivia, right?" a woman asks.

She nods.

"You look confused. We all were, at first." She smiles, and Olivia can tell she's a kind person. "My name's Nancy."

"Hello," Olivia whispers.

"So, women shower first while the guys eat, then we switch. Soap and everything is in the stall. There's a clean towel hanging on the door, and a shelf for your clothes. Just like at the gym."

"Okay," Olivia says slowly, and walks towards an empty stall. Nancy smiles and returns to her own shower.

After a moment of scanning her shower and the space around it for anything odd, Olivia begins to strip off her clothes. Most of the other showers are already on.

When Olivia slides off her pants, though, she finds a red prick in her inner thigh, just above the knee. It feels as if there's something beneath the skin, like a bead or a grain of rice.

A tracker. How had she not noticed it before?

She closes her eyes, tries to forget where she is. She pretends that she's at home, in her own shower, and that nothing is wrong.

It doesn't work.

* * *

Back at the lab, while Walter is examining the body of the latest victim, Peter reads case files on David Robert Jones. Anything and everything, since before he was placed in prison in Germany.

Nothing is related to where Olivia may be.

Peter's only hope, only consolation is that wherever Jones has her, Olivia's alive. Because he thinks she's important.

He even rereads most of the ZFT manuscript and skims the rest, just in case.

Just as he's considering calling Charlie again, his phone rings.

"Hello?" he answers.

"_Peter? It's Astrid._"

"Hey, Astrid. What's up?"

"_I'm here with Charlie at the Federal Building and we think we found something._"

"I'm on my way."

"_Bring your father,_" she adds, and the line clicks off.

* * *

Breakfast reminds Olivia of a cross between cafeteria lunch in high school and breakfast bars in cheap hotels: serve-yourself, and the food is almost inedible.

She settles for a bowl of generic cereal and an orange. There is no coffee.

After, they all return to the main room. On every bed is a fresh pillowcase and blanket.

Underneath her pillow, Olivia finds something. It looks blank until she flips it over: a class picture of the day-care in Jacksonville. In it are most of the people in the room with her.

Miranda Greene, Lloyd Becker, Timothy Ober, Nancy and Susan Lewis—who are identical twins—herself, Nick Lane, and multiple others.

She does not find Nick's friend Sally in the picture.

But towering over them in the top right corner of the photo is a man. A man who wears a familiar smile and has his hand on Olivia's shoulder.

Walter Bishop.

* * *

**A/N: *Braces for onslaught of impatient readers* No, I'm kidding. Sorry again, my schedule is so off the wall I haven't been able to find time to write or type. But I'm trying. Beta'd by jayitaintso. Review please!**


	4. Part IV: Partners

"_Adversity has the effect of eliciting talents which in prosperous circumstances would have lain dormant."_

_-Roman poet Horace_

* * *

"So, first, we got a match for Jones' DNA and fingerprints on the mug from Olivia's apartment," Charlie tells him in the bullpen at the Federal Building.

Peter nods. He was sure they would.

"But Broyles says we have to run this one on the books so Harris can't roadblock us, so we sent a forensic team out there, too."

"And they found something," Astrid continues.

She hands Peter a sheet of paper—a chemical analysis report. "What is it?" he asks, more to himself than anyone else.

"We ran it, and got a hit on a patent filed in 1981 by—guess who—Massive Dynamic. It's called—"

"Cortexiphan," Walter murmurs next to him.

He looks up at his father, half-way wanting to strike the man.

Walter takes a deep breath. "I was afraid of this. Jones is attempting to activate Olivia."

"That's what the lights were about," Peter says, not a question.

"Yes," Walter agrees.

"Wait, go back," Charlie says, confused. "What is Cortexiphan and what does it have to do with Liv?"

* * *

Olivia felt sick to her stomach looking at the picture.

So she hit it. Inside her pillowcase, as deep as it would go.

A man calls "Attention!" and everyone rushes into lines. Olivia finds herself between Nick and Nancy, the only two people who'd spoken to her directly since she'd run in.

She recognizes the man by his swollen and bruised nose, which she'd broken the day before.

Next thing she knows, every single one of them drops to the floor and starts doing push-ups. She's made it through thirty-seven of one hundred when her arms start to waver, but she doesn't fall and doesn't stop. Luckily, she's not the last to finish.

The man barks out orders until every last one of them is about to pass out. He's about to call out another when the door behind him opens and Jones enters.

Everyone—even their 'drill sergeant'—returns to attention and lowers the volume of their ragged breathing.

"Good work, everyone. Ten minute break—then we'll head to your group work."

What 'group work' is, Olivia doesn't know. She turns to follow Nick until she hears her name.

"Miss Dunham, a word."

Nick glances back but doesn't stop. Olivia turns in Jones' direction, but doesn't get within four feet.

He closes the distance for her. "How is your first day going so far, Olivia?"

"Just swell," she answers dryly, earning herself a few glances.

He seems to ignore her sarcasm. "Good. I'm confident you'll soon begin to see the point of all this," he says, glancing around them. "Then you'll understand why I've brought you here."

"Look," Olivia hisses through her teeth, stepping closer in defiance, "you may have everyone here either loyal to you or terrified into submission, but not me. I know what you're capable of, and I don't plan on sticking around to be your pawn, Jones."

As Olivia speaks, the smile on Jones' face slowly get wider, and it makes her spine straighten and her fingers curl into her palms.

He turns and leaves without another word.

Olivia, both unnerved by his reaction and relieved by his departure, returns to her cot and sits.

Her aching muscles, screaming before, relax slightly. The pain reminds her of her training, when she had been a rookie.

"Olive, are you okay?" Nick asks.

She nods numbly. "I'm fine," she says, not meaning it at all.

* * *

"Does Rachel know?" Charlie asks.

"Olivia didn't even know until last night," Peter sighs, glancing in the direction of her empty desk.

Walter stands next to Peter, staring at the ground and shuffling his feet back and forth nervously.

"Does she know Olivia's missing?"

Peter looks back at him. "No."

"We shouldn't tell her yet," Astrid says. "Don't worry her. We're gonna find Olivia."

"How?" Walter asks.

No one answers him.

A few moments later, Charlie asks him, "Do you remember any of the other Cortexiphan subjects' names? If Jones took Olivia, maybe he took some of the others."

"And he may have left a trail," Astrid adds.

Walter shakes his head. "I…I'm sorry, I can't. I'm afraid my memory's not what it used to be."

"But are there records?" Astrid asks.

"If there are, I don't have them."

"But someone we know might," Peter says.

"Who?" Walter asks.

"Nina Sharp," Peter sighs. "Guess it's time to call in another favor."

* * *

'Group work' turned out to be something Olivia didn't expect.

They were made to stand in a big circle, with their arms spread out on either side of them. A man—a different man, an older man—stood in the center and gave instructions.

"Close your eyes," he says, "and open your mind. Let it reach out and fill the entire room."

Olivia peeks open an eye, and sees everyone else is doing as they're told. The man turns to face her and he closes her eye again.

"Let your mind go," he continues in what Olivia assumes is supposed to be a 'soothing' voice. "Timothy, how many can you feel?"

"Fourteen, I think. No, thirteen…and a half. Someone's holding back, not connecting…She's confused, lost." He takes a deep breath. "It's Olivia."

Olivia opens her eyes at the sound of her name.

The man in the center of the circle turns to her. "It's okay. It'll take some time before she's fully connected," he says and Olivia realizes he's not talking to her. "Just pull her under as best as you can."

The man raises his hand in a gesture for her to close her eyes.

She does.

When she does, something comes over her. It's slow at first, but it spreads through her mind and her entire body, like a slow-burning fire under her skin.

"She's under."

"She was only dosed yesterday. It may get harder to pull her in as it burns up, she'll have to be complacent."

She doesn't know how, but she knows that Timothy nods.

"Now I want everyone to pick an image, a single image to send out. Timothy, one at a time, name off the images and who they came from."

A moment passes before he speaks. "James, a hospital bed. Miranda, a cup of coffee. Nancy, a window. Susan, a bus. Alan, a book. Nick, a teddy bear. Sally, a strawberry. Cameron, a clock. Olivia, a photo…" He trails off, even though he's only gone through about two-thirds of them.

"Timothy?"

"It's Olivia, her image is…fuzzy."

"That's fine. Move on if you can."

He takes another deep breath. "Lisa, an apple. Ken…"

* * *

"Nick, it's your turn."

"Okay," he says from beside Olivia.

"Contentment."

Olivia doesn't know what's going on, but she relaxes a little in her own skin.

"Fear."

Olivia tenses, her body on alert. Several people around the room begin to breathe a little faster.

"Laughter."

The entire circle begins to laugh, including Olivia. It's as if her mind has been hi-jacked. Only then does she realize what's going on.

"Pain," the man continues.

One person lets out a broken sob—it sounds like James. Several others inhale sharply. Someone groans. Olivia doesn't know why or where from, but she hurts. She's about to lose her balance when it fades away, receding like heartburn.

"Good. Now everybody take a deep breath and open your eyes."

They do.

"You know the drill, now. Sally, work with Nancy and Susan, for today."

She nods. Everybody heads back in the direction of the room where they ate breakfast. Olivia follows, as she has been for the past two days and, she supposes, will continue to do until she escapes or knows the routine. Hopefully the former, she thinks.

James is led in the direction of the other doors, helped by the man from the circle.

When they arrive in what Olivia mentally dubs the Cafeteria, every pair—and, in Sally, Nancy, and Susan's case, trio—takes a separate table.

Olivia sits across from Nick.

"What do we do now?" she asks.

"Now," he says with a gentle smirk, "we figure out what you can do."

* * *

Charlie flew with Peter and Walter to New York. The trip felt long, but ultimately was shorter than driving would have been.

Massive Dynamic is much bigger than any of them expected.

And even though Charlie's the only official agent, Walter's name is the one that gets them in to see Nina Sharp. Olivia's name helps, too.

"Agent Francis," Nina says, shaking his hand.

"Miss Sharp," he returns.

"Peter, Walter," she nods to them.

Peter nods back. Walter smiles. "Hello, Nina."

She smiles back uncomfortably. "What can I do for you today?"

"We're here because you told Olivia that there was a second trial of Cortexiphan in Jacksonville," Peter says.

"Yes, I did."

"We need any and all records on that trial and the Wooster trial, as well."

"I'm afraid there's not much by way of records. William was a man of many talents, and although documentation was one, secrecy was another. Whatever he had, he didn't keep it here."

"Ma'am, I know that you're running a major corporation here, and I understand the need for…discretion. But if you are withholding evidence, we could charge you," Charlie says.

Peter's sure that Nina knows Charlie is bluffing, but he can also see the threat makes her a little nervous and even more curious.

"Withholding evidence, Agent Francis? Has there been a crime committed?"

"Yes, ma'am, Agent Dunham is missing."

This definitely catches her attention. "Oh, I had no idea. And you think this is related to Cortexiphan?"

Peter says, a little rudely, "You called Olivia last night and told her about Jacksonville. How did she sound to you? Surprised?"

"I suppose, but—"

"I was there when she took the call, Miss Sharp, and she was scared. Do you know why?" He didn't even let her try to answer. "Because Olivia grew up in Jacksonville. On a military base."

Nina didn't respond.

"Please, Miss Sharp, we believe the person took Olivia has taken other Cortexiphan subjects, too, and those files may lead us to wherever she is," Charlie adds.

"Look, I'm truly sorry about Olivia. I am. I'll give you what we have on the Cortexiphan trials, but like I said, it's fairly light."

"Well, we'll take it anyway. Thank you." Charlie stands, holds his hand out to her again.

"You're welcome," she says, taking it.

Peter is the first out of the office, and Charlie's not far behind.

"Nina?" Walter asks, still in his chair.

"Yes, Walter," she sighs.

"You've known about Olivia the whole time, haven't you? You must have recognized her mane from the start. I didn't, but I'm not exactly the best at remembering," he giggles nervously.

Nina doesn't answer. She stands again and walks up to him.

"Where's Belly, Nina?"

"He didn't do this, Walter."

"I know he didn't. David Robert Jones did."

Nina glances away, and then sighs again.

"Please, Nina, help us find these children. What we did back them wasn't right, but what Jones is doing now is worse. He found Belly's manifesto. But there was a part missing, about how our children are our greatest resource. If he hasn't read that, how will he know to stop?"

Nina looks at him, and walks back to her desk. She picks up her phone and pushes one button.

"Yes, could you give the Wooster and Jacksonville files to the agent outside, please? Yes, all of them. Thank you."

Walter smiles at her again. "Thank you, Nina."

* * *

"My ability?" Olivia asks.

"Yeah," Nick says.

"Well, what's yours?"

He laughs. "What happened in the circle out there?"

She thinks back. "You made everyone feel what you were feeling."

He nods. "They call it reverse-empath. It's harder to do with the others, but with normal people it's easy." His eyes drop for a moment, but the find her again. "What have you done so far?"

"I turned out some lights, I think."

"That's just the activation test," he says. "Anything else?"

"No."

"Well, we'll just have to figure it out. Look around. What do you see?"

She looks at the group closest to them: Sally and the twins.

Sally holds a ball of fire in her hands. Nancy and Susan light different objects on fire just by looking at them.

She glances over at Timothy and his partner. The second guy, she remembers from the photo his name was Mark Little, but his cot is labeled Cameron James. He looks like he's just closing his eyes, but the table next to him slides closer, as if magnetized to him.

Miranda Greene makes her hand go through the table. Her partner Tessa makes a spoon bend just by looking at it.

"Do you remember anything? From when we were kids, from Jacksonville…"

Olivia shakes her head. "No. Nothing like this. Which is weird, because I have an eidetic memory." She sighs.

"It's okay, Olive," Nick says, laying a gentle hand on her wrist. It makes her think back to the bar, to Peter.

The light above them flickers.

Nick looks up. "What were you just thinking about?"

"Nothing," she says immediately. "Just…thinking."

"Well, think some more."

"Why?"

He smiles. "An experiment."

She hesitates, but nods. She closes her eyes on instinct, and let the memories of her and Peter in the bar fill her mind.

They drank, they talked. She drove him home. He kissed her.

Something above her pops, and she hears the tinkling of broken glass on the cement floor. She opens her eyes and finds all eyes on her.

"Is everybody okay?" Nick asks. There's murmurs.

Olivia suddenly feels drained. "Did I do that?" she asks softly.

The light that burst leaves a gaping square of dark in between the other fluorescents, which still flicker on and off periodically.

"'Fraid so," he says.

* * *

Peter goes over files on the plane with Charlie. He goes over them again on the way back to the lab, and another time at the lab, locked away in Olivia's office.

One passage in particular though, he can't help but reread. And every time, it makes him a little sick.

_Subject 13 shows signs of increasing instability. Came to school with a sprained wrist, mother said she fell down the stairs. Subject can be introverted, but forms intense bonds with those she allows close to her. Does well in partner groups. Highly protective of partner. May have experienced crossing-over, but trigger is unknown. More testing needed._

What makes him sick is the sprained wrist. Her own mother claimed she fell down the stairs, when likely her step-father had been beating her. He tries not to judge, but it's hard not to.

What makes him reread, though, is the information on a partner. If only the other child was identified, even just a subject number, it may be a lead.

"Walter?" he calls, file in hand. He leaves the seclusion of the office in search of his father, hoping desperately for a miracle.

"Yes, Peter?" he calls back.

Peter finds him in Gene's stall, just finishing up a milking.

"Did all the Cortexiphan subjects have partners?"

"Oh, yes," Walter says, lifting the metal bucket from beneath the cow. "We felt it necessary for the children to have someone to rely on. Like the 'buddy-system' at summer camp."

Peter shakes his head. "Disturbing," he murmurs.

"Why?" Walter asks.

"I think I may have found something on Olivia, and was hoping you could maybe remember the name of her partner."

Walter thought a moment. "Nothing's coming to mind, son. Maybe a little LSD could help."

Peter placed a hand against his father's chest, stopping him in his tracks. "Let's not, for now. Okay?"

"Fine," he concedes. "But if you find anything on Subject 14, that would be him."

"How do you know?" Peter asks skeptically.

"We went in numerical order, son."

* * *

**A/N: Whoop-whoop! Chapter 4, up and running! And this is a long(ish) one! Now I just have to write Chapter 5…and find a quote to put at the beginning of the chapter. If anyone's wondering, I scored the one above from an essay I wrote in English class. Totally used Olivia as my example, too. Because apparently I try to work Fringe into school essays…REVIEW, MY LOVELIES.**


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